


Distantly

by Cumberbatch Critter (ivelostmyspectacles)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Gen or Pre-Het, Hurt/Comfort, LSD, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:33:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2556515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/Cumberbatch%20Critter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod gets drugged with lysergic acid diethylamide.</p><p>Abbie's had a little experience with LSD, both by herself and by watching others, so she just knows:<br/>Ichabod's having a bad trip.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distantly

**Author's Note:**

> Read the tags, the summary, or this A/N. Drug use, so don't read if that'll bother you. I wanted to explore a drugged Ichabod. ^^'
> 
> I do not own _Sleepy Hollow_. Thanks for reading!

"Crane!"

Abbie sprinted across the warehouse. Her footsteps were loud in the otherwise silence, the heels of her boots crashing through the shallow puddles from leaky pipes. The place was dark, and dank, and it smelled of rot. It made her nose itch.

Ichabod was slumped over against the wall, head down, hair hanging in limp waves around his face. She always thought that he looked like Jesus with his hair down. He wasn't so much the epitomization now.

"Crane." Abbie knelt down next to him, the cement staining her jeans with dirt as the cold seeped through. She gripped his face, either of her hands on either side of his face, and tilted his head up. "Ichabod."

His eyes were open, but Abbie got the distinct impression that he wasn't seeing her. She couldn't see much in the dimness of the warehouse, but he looked pale, and sick, and tired. Something about him was just _off_. It made her skin crawl.

"Okay, we're getting out of here and then we'll see what's up with you, alright?" She didn't get a response, but managed to pull her companion to his feet. She considered it a minor miracle that she managed to get him into her car without him once falling; he was too tall for her to really handle, but he seemed to accommodate, curling into himself and making him closer to his height.

"Here, sit down." She eased him into a sitting position in the passenger seat, sitting him wrong way around on the seat to face her in the doorway. "Are you hurt?"

He was horribly pale. The fact that she had noticed in a dark room should have forewarned her, but it hadn't clicked. He was practically white beneath the dark tendrils falling into his face. His pupils were dilated, his eyes glazed, but worse was the fact that they were flicking around restlessly, never settling on one thing. It was like he was seeing things that she couldn't.

She snapped her fingers in his face. "Crane!"

Ichabod jumped slightly, and his eyes came inwards to focus on her. Focus, in the lightest sense, because he seemed to be having trouble on that front. "... Lieutenant?" he asked quietly. He looked a little confused.

Abbie let out a breath that she wasn't aware she'd been holding. "Good. Can you tell me what's wrong? What did they do?" She leaned forward to press two fingers against his neck for a pulse. He flinched from her touch and her fingers hesitated. "Sorry," she muttered, but pushed ahead. His neck was sweaty, and the pulse beneath Abbie's fingers was jumping erratically.

"... Um." Ichabod sat up slightly. "I... A syringe," he said, meeting Abbie's gaze slowly.

"A syringe?" Abbie pulled back. "Did they drug you, Crane?" Like he would know, she had to remind herself. "Show me where?"

Slowly, his hands travelled to a spot on his arm. Abbie, as gently as possible because she didn't know what other injuries he might have, pulled his shirt aside. Sure enough, there was a small puncture wound, barely noticeable. She swore under her breath and fixed his shirt. She should have guessed that first thing. He could be distant, but he was never distant in the presence of another human being. His manners won out over anti-socialism, most of the time.

"Stupid..." she muttered to herself. She shook her head slightly, and then raised her voice. "Crane, do you remember what it is? If they said the name of a drug?"

Ichabod's eyebrows furrowed. He was clearly trying to remember something that seemed to be physically paining him. "... LCD."

Abbie's frown grew more pronounced. "LSD?" Ichabod nodded slightly, and then he was looking at something over her shoulder. (She checked; there was nothing there.) "Shit." When was the last time she had seen a trip? It had been awhile. "Shit," she repeated, and then reached into the car to grip Ichabod's shoulders. "Turn around. I need you to turn and face the windshield, okay? I'm taking you back to my place."

If she remembered correctly, it took acid a half an hour or so to take effect and, unless he was having a mild case, that allotted time probably hadn't passed. He was still more or less lucid, although a little scatterbrained right now. She had to get him back home before he got worse, or the situation could go bad quickly. She'd never even seen him drunk. She didn't know what to expect.

The ride back to her place was a short one. She even managed to get him out of the car, and tried to ignore the way that he stumbled into the doorframe in her entrance. She could feel him shaking, ever so slightly, and every so often.

"Still with me, Crane?" she asked softly.

Ichabod cringed. He sat down resolutely on the sofa and swallowed. Abbie hoped he wasn't about to throw up, but then she noticed the look in his eyes. It wasn't quite panic, but there was definitely fear there. He was staring into the shadows.

"There's nothing there," Abbie said, hurrying across the room to hit the lights. "It's just me and you, alright? We're going to be fine."

"I killed him."

Cold ice trickled down Abbie's spine. She stopped where she was, glancing over her shoulder at Ichabod. He wasn't looking at her, but simply staring into the spot where the shadows had been dispelled by the light. It wasn't even the vacant look that put chills into Abbie's veins. It was his tone. It was... raw.

"Who?" Abbie asked. She couldn't help it. Maybe he had killed someone in self-defense at the warehouse; she needed to ask to make sure, even if she wouldn't get straight answers out of him right now.

"Abraham." Ichabod made a face. "I killed him. Katrina and I, I swore to her that our love should not be made known to our friend, but she was not to be deterred. When the truth was spoken, my friend turned to his sword in rage and grief. I ran him through." His hands clenched into fists unconsciously, skin pulling tight over his knuckles. "I had his blood on my hands. I could have spared him save not for reckless abandon. Jealousy makes a mockery of us yet, still doing so in the crimson painting my very palms." His gaze travelled down to look at his hands. He uncurled his fingers from his palms and stared at his hands.

Abbie turned around. That wasn't the story she had heard. It was, of course, probably a hallucination. Ghosts of the past twisted into something more deadly than they were made out to be, but Ichabod looked tormented by something Abbie couldn't see.

"Crane- Ichabod," she revised, crossing the room back to him. "Listen to me. You did _not_ kill Abraham." He didn't look up at her, but she pressed on nonetheless. "The Hessians killed him, and he made a deal with his soul. It wasn't you, Ichabod." She touched his shoulder gently.

Ichabod's entire body jerked away from her fingers. "Don't touch me," he bit off vehemently, so vehemently that it left Abbie recoiling uncertainly.

She held up her hands. "Sorry. It's just me. Alright?"

Crane just stared stonily towards the floor. It was an improvement over his hands, at least. "My Father touched me," he muttered. "Tried to stop me from leaving. Threatened to disown me. Grabbed my arm and told me if I left, to never come back."

"Well, he was stupid," Abbie replied. "Look at you now. Prime example of a perfect soldier."

Ichabod laughed dryly. He was quiet for a moment before swallowing again.

Abbie decided to get the trash can from the kitchen.

"Miss Mills...?"

She stood up so fast that she smacked her head on the underside of the cabinet. She snapped off another spectacular curse, but stood up the rest of the way, trash can in one hand. "Crane? You with me?"

Ichabod looked up slowly. "... There's... _things_ ," he muttered."

"Things?" Abbie asked, rejoining him in the living room. "Tell me what things. Talk to me."

"Shapes..." Ichabod blinked slowly, and then hard, squeezing his eyes shut. "Moving things... on the floor... and the walls..." He reached out for something, presumably whatever he was seeing. His hand hit nothing and fell limply; Abbie caught it in mid-air.

"Hey, okay." She set the trash can down next to him, stealthily trying to take his pulse while she had his wrist. "You were drugged, Crane. You're seeing things because you were drugged. It makes you feel weird, sick, you'll see things that aren't real."

Ichabod squeezed his eyes shut again. His free hand came up to rub at them clumsily. "She's not real..."

"Who, Crane?" Abbie absently rubbed a patch of goose bumps away from his skin with her thumb. "I'm right here."

"Katrina," Ichabod whispered. His tone pitched off into something so quiet that Abbie barely heard it even standing next to him. His voice broke when he spoke his wife's name and Abbie unconsciously knew that she'd lost him to the drug again. "I have to..." He struggled to find his legs.

"Woah, hey, you're not going anywhere." She clutched at his other arm, trying to keep him from standing. Not that he was doing a great job.

"Let me go!" Ichabod retorted. Instead of angry, it came out something closer to a sob. "She's... she's _burning_. Can't you see? I need... I need..."

"Okay." Abbie turned to more embracing him as he crumbled into her arms. "She's alright. Katrina's all right, she's fine, so am I, so are you. Take it easy."

"My _head_ ," Ichabod moaned. "I'm _dying_. The box in the kitchen just vanished into the wall," he continued, still in the same tone, and Abbie had to glance over her shoulder to realize that he was talking about the refrigerator.

"Fridge is still there, trust me," she murmured, pushing at his shoulders gently. "Sit up, Crane."

"Abbie." Ichabod groped for her wrist; it was probably pure luck that he found it and clung on tightly to her fingers. "We're all going to perish, Abbie." Now his gaze found hers, frighteningly intense for the first time since she'd found him. "I'm destined to sell your soul. I'm going to be eternally damned for it. Katrina's burning on the effigy. My _son_ -" He broke off, this time with a real sob.

"No, no, no," Abbie interrupted, gripping Crane's hand with her free one. "We are _fine_ , Crane. I promise. And Henry, we'll figure out what to do with him-" She couldn't promise that one, not truthfully, but Crane had tears in his eyes. Abbie knew that altered personality could come from an acid trip - not everyone was a happy trip - and with that, extreme anxiety, but this was...

"I fail everyone that I touch," Ichabod continued. His grip on her fingers was almost painful. "I fail everyone that I lay eyes on. I failed my country, I failed my best friend, I failed my wife, my son, the Lieutenant, even the world expects me to save it from the End of Days but I can't even save the people that I care most deeply about. How am I to save the world when I'm living under the impression that the walls are breathing?"

Abbie startled at that comment. Was that a symptom? Probably so. She didn't remember. _Think_ , Mills.

Ichabod shook his head a bit wildly. The tears fell haphazardly. "Abbie." He was coming and going with his lucidness. "How are we supposed to manage? We're put onto this earth with no sense of our purpose, and yet we're to be the saviors of the world. We are put here, doomed to fail. No such task can be contained by two people. Surely the Heavenly Lord has a larger plan in place and we fail to see it. Right?" he pleaded. He was looking at her again, staring into her soul.

Abbie shifted uncomfortably. She didn't care who it was; she wasn't good with emotional crap like this. She hadn't talked to her sister in almost a decade by design of never having anything to say, never wanting to toe the sentimental boundaries. The fact that it was Crane made it worse. Crane, who barely breathed a word of his inner musings unless they were positive, who found a way to exercise his faith in their free will when Abbie herself was on the end of her rope. Crane was her _partner_. She was supposed to have his back, and anything she said right now wouldn't help to assuage any fear that he might have.

"It's gonna be okay, Crane," she muttered uselessly, sinking onto the sofa next to him. She couldn't promise that, either. She couldn't do _anything_ for him right now. She didn't know what was supposed to help. The one time she had done acid was when she was seventeen, and at a party that had gone terribly wrong. She didn't remember what happened to her, except that she woke up passed out on the sofa of the place where the party had been and then staggered home by herself. Hadn't touched it since.

"... Lieutenant?"

"Mhmm?" She rubbed circles on the back of his hand absently. She barely noticed that she was even doing it.

"... My mouth... there's a horrible taste of metal," Ichabod mumbled. "And I..." He shifted. "I'm going to be sick."

"Trash can," she said, pointing dully.

"... This is most poorly done," he muttered, and then curled over the trash can to throw up. "... Forgive me," he said hoarsely, when he resurfaced. He didn't look up. One of her hands had left Abbie's to brace himself on the sofa.

"Not your fault, Crane," Abbie said shortly. "Don't worry about it."

Ichabod coughed and shook his head slowly. "My head is pounding. Everything's bright... sparkling. It feels like there's a thousand spiders upon my skin." He shook his head a bit more.

Abbie placed her hand on his shoulder. "Take it easy. You've got a long way to go." She felt for his pulse again.

Ichabod tilted his head slightly to look at her. "... How long?" he mumbled.

"Let's not," Abbie replied gently. She squeezed his shoulder. Six to fourteen hours probably wasn't what Crane wanted to hear right now.

"Mm..." Ichabod closed his eyes.

Abbie didn't miss the way that he pressed infinitely closer towards her. "Are you cold?" She reached up to press her hand against his cheek, his forehead. He didn't have a fever, which meant it was drug induced.

"Impossibly so," Ichabod replied without opening his eyes.

"Okay." Abbie let go of him, standing up. "How about I get you into bed?" She realized it sounded unfortunate, the wording, afterwards, but it was a mark to his state that he didn't comment about it.

Instead, he just nodded numbly.

"Alright." Abbie nodded, then determinedly stepped forward to help.

She slipped his old coat off first, throwing it aside. Then the boots. Then she tied his hair back into a ponytail and helped him into the guest bedroom. He promptly collapsed onto the bed and gripped at the blankets with a vice-like grip when Abbie pulled them up to his chin.

"If you need anything..." she started. But he didn't respond, so Abbie didn't continue the conversation. Instead, she just went to the bathroom to get a cool cloth and idly wiped the sweat away from his face and neck.

Caretaking wasn't her thing. She barely could take care of herself when she was sick. Mostly because she didn't have the time or the patience to get sick, much less trying to help herself get better. She was more the kind of person who just tried to struggle through it. So, taking care of Crane was even weirder. Everything about this wasn't right.

"Miss Mills..."

Abbie paused and pressed the cloth against the jumping pulse in his neck. She had thought he was asleep already. "Yeah?"

"... Don't let them take our souls," he mumbled.

She slowly returned to sponging his neck. "Who?"

"... Moloch. Death. War. Conquest, Famine..." he trailed off.

"Don't worry about them, Crane. They're not here."

"Abbie?"

" _I'm_ still here."

Ichabod mumbled something that was lost to either the drug or him falling asleep. He didn't say anything else beyond that.

As much as she knew he'd be loathe to it, Abbie crawled into bed next to him. She didn't get under the blankets. It was his benefit, not hers, although he might not be adverse to cuddling in his state right now. Still.

As much as _she_ didn't want to, however, she did end up falling asleep next to him. When she woke up again, Ichabod was sitting up next to her.

"Hey," Abbie said hurriedly, trying to untangle herself from the blankets (where had those come from?) and make sure Ichabod didn't get up. "Don't get up."

Ichabod's attention snapped around to her. His eyes were wide, but clearer than when Abbie had last looked into them. "Lieutenant..." His eyes left her and bounced around the room, but they settled on things in her room, instead of unseen shadows.

Abbie held up her hands. "We didn't do anything," she added. "I swear. You were drugged, do you remember?"

Ichabod blinked slowly. There was a blush high on his cheeks. "Uh." He cleared his throat and sat up slightly. "Somewhat."

Abbie finally managed to push the blankets away. She checked the time. "You should be completely down by now. How are you feeling? You had a bad trip."

"We took a trip?" Ichabod asked. "Where did we go?"

"No, a trip, that's what it's called when you take drugs. LSD."

"Oh." Ichabod blinked hard. "Did I sleep?" he asked shortly, looking over at Abbie. "At all?"

"Touch and go. You were in and out of being with me a lot."

"I am inordinately exhausted," Ichabod murmured. "I don't remember how I got here. I remember... we split up. Someone else was there..."

"Yeah, that was our perp. I got him, but he must have drugged you when you ran into him..."

"And then... I was seeing things?" He looked at Abbie again. "‘Things’ being a vague term, but there is no other way to describe it. Shapes. Six pointed stars. Pentagrams instead of pentagons." He frowned. "Squares that morphed into circles with Abraham's face."

Abbie nodded. "That happens. Geometric shapes, in wild colors, that move or sparkle or breathe. You said you saw the walls breathing."

"I don't remember." Ichabod cleared his throat. "Did I speak of Katrina?"

Abbie tried not to think of last night, when Ichabod had gone off on the drugged tangent about his wife. _"I've never known such a lying woman, Abbie. I thought that I knew her but all I ever knew of her was a lie. Lies, lies, lies... She was a spy, she was with child, she witnessed my betrothed's death. She still remains to be a blasted witch and, had I not been brought back to life, I would not have known of that, either. To waste time on a relationship built on lies is full of ridiculousness, yet I try. I try because I am the only one who will; I trust not our relationship in her malicious hands; how am I to return to the wench that I know not?"_ It had fractured off at that point, his mind taking on the 21st century as a point of interest instead. He had been moving so quickly between thoughts that Abbie had barely been able to keep up with him.

"A little," she admitted. "A little about the Apocalypse, a little about Henry, the 21st century. Your mind gets out of control when you take hallucinogens. Well, mostly any drug, but... LSD really messes with your head."

"Forgive me," Ichabod muttered, swinging his legs out of bed, "if I said anything most improper; I don't recall."

Abbie shook her head, hauling herself out of bed. "You had a bad trip," she repeated. "You were forced drugs in an uncomfortable environment. You've never even _heard_ of LSD. Not your fault." She joined him at the other side of the bed, ready to grab his arm if he stumbled. He might be down, and LSD didn't generally have any long-lasting effects, but he still looked hazy on the details. "It messes you up, I know."

Ichabod frowned, reaching for Abbie's arm just as she reached for his. "I'm sorry." He didn't remove his hand. "You have... experience with LSD?"

Abbie shrugged. "Once. Delinquent past, remember?"

Ichabod barely smiled.

"It's horrible," Abbie continued. "But you're down. Probably tired, but down. Where were you heading?"

"Lavatory. I believe I can manage," he replied, although he seemed unwilling to take his hand off of her. "Thank you," he added, looking away from the doorway and down at her again.

"No prob."

"If it were not for you, Miss Mills..." He paused, seeming to think. Abbie wondered what he was wondering about. "I do believe I would have had much more of a... bad trip," he continued shortly. "Thank you for your assistance, truly."

Abbie smiled wryly. "Didn't really do anything, Crane."

"You were here, Lieutenant. I have told you before that your company is of utmost value to me." Ichabod smiled wearily. "I have few friends in Sleepy Hollow. Your presence is always welcoming." He straightened up slightly. "If you'll excuse me..."

Abbie nodded. "Back to bed afterwards, though. I'll make you something to eat, if you want."

"That sounds lovely," Ichabod murmured. He looked so tired, but he still managed to smile at her like she was the one in need of placating.

"Go on," she said softly, waving him towards the bathroom. "I'm not leaving."

"I should hope not." His smile didn't fade, but he turned away to follow Abbie's directions. "Back in a moment."

Abbie rubbed her forehead once he had closed the bathroom door. She had a headache, she couldn't imagine how _he_ felt. But, nonetheless, she was going to make breakfast, something light for him, and get him back to bed. And maybe then crash back on the couch after he was asleep.

At least there was a moral here. Abbie was pretty sure that Crane was never going to do drugs after this. She definitely wasn't, either. Some habits died hard, thankfully, drugs hadn't been one of them.

"Did I call you ‘Abbie’ over the course of my high?" Ichabod asked slowly, when he had settled onto the sofa for a light breakfast.

"Uh huh." She squinted at the tiny print on the package of instant oatmeal. "Don't worry about it. It's my name."

"Did you call me ‘Ichabod’?"

"Yep. It was a crisis," Abbie said, dumping the oatmeal and water into a bowl and shoving it into the microwave. "That's what we do in crisises, don't we?" She glanced up.

Ichabod smiled faintly. "So it would seem... Abbie."

" _Now_ you're going to call me Abbie?" She grinned. "Are you sure you're still not high?"

"Your face is very much your face, Lieutenant," Ichabod replied, a little stiffly now. "I am not seeing your body with a bright orange _blob_ attached to it for a head."

"‘Abbie’ is fine," Abbie chuckled.

"No, I believe the moment is very much lost now."

Abbie laughed. "Whatever you say, Crane."

Ichabod smiled softly. Abbie shook her head slightly, smiling in return.

The moment was then very much lost by the shrill beeping of the microwave.

Abbie jumped and went to get the oatmeal.


End file.
